Here at Poetry of the Day, I feature poetry that i really like including, poems about friendship,famous poems, poems about life, and poems that i personally write. Poetry of the day is apart of the MyOwnVerse Poetry Network!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

My folks think I'm a serving maidEach time I visit home;They do not dream I ply a tradeAs old as Greece or Rome;For if they found I'd fouled their nameAnd was not white as snow,I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .Please, God, they'll never know.

I clean the paint from off my face,In sober black I dress;Of coquetry I leave no traceTo give them vague distress;And though it causes me a pangTo play such sorry tricks,About my neck I meekly hangA silver crufix.

And so with humble step I goJust like a child again,To greet their Christmas candle-glow,A soul without a stain;So well I play my contrite partI make myself believeThere's not a stain within my heartOn Holy Christmas Eve.

With double natures we are vext,And what we feel, we are;A saint one day, a sinner next,A red light or a star;A prostitute or proselyte,And in each part sincere:So I become a vestal whiteOne week in every year.

For this I say without demurFrom out life's lurid lore,Each righteous women has in herA tincture of the whore;While every harpy of the night,As I have learned too well;Holds in her heart a heaven-lightTo ransom her from hell.

So I'll go home and sweep and dust;I'll make the kitchen fire,And be a model of daughters justThe best they could desire;I'll fondle them and cook their food,And Mother dear will say:"Thank God! my darling is as goodAs when she went away."

But after New Year's Day I'll fillMy bag and though they grieve,I'll bid them both good-bye untilAnother Christmas Eve;And then . . . a knock upon the door:I'll find them waiting there,And angel-like I'll come once moreIn answer to their prayer.

Then Lo! one night when candle-lightGleams mystic on the snow,And music swells of Christmas bells,I'll come, no more to go:The old folks need my love and care,Their gold shall gild my dross,And evermore my breast shall bearMy little silver cross.

White Christmas by Robert William Service

Robert William Service
(January 16, 1874 – September 11, 1958)
was a poet and writer who has often been called "the Bard of the Yukon"

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

In the dark and damp of the alley cold,Lay the Christmas tree that hadn't been sold;By a shopman dourly thrown outside;With the ruck and rubble of Christmas-tide;Trodden deep in the muck and mire,Unworthy even to feed a fire...So I stopped and salvaged that tarnished tree,And thus is the story it told to me:

"My Mother was Queen of the forest glade,And proudly I prospered in her shade;For she said to me: 'When I am dead,You will be monarch in my stead,And reign, as I, for a hundred years,A tower of triumph amid your peers,When I crash in storm I will yield you space;Son, you will worthily take my place.'

"So I grew in grace like a happy child,In the heart of the forest free and wild;And the moss and the ferns were all about,And the craintive mice crept in and out;And a wood-dove swung on my highest twig,And a chipmunk chattered: 'So big! So big!'And a shy fawn nibbled a tender shoot,And a rabbit nibbled under my root...Oh, I was happy in rain and shineAs I thought of the destiny that was mine!Then a man with an axe came cruising byAnd I knew that my fate was to fall and die.

"With a hundred others he packed me tight,And we drove to a magic city of light,To an avenue lined with Christmas trees,And I thought: may be I'll be one of these,Tinselled with silver and tricked with gold,A lovely sight for a child to behold;A-glitter with lights of every hue,Ruby and emerald, orange and blue,And kiddies dancing, with shrieks of glee - One might fare worse than a Christmas tree.

"So they stood me up with a hundred moreIn the blaze of a big department store;But I thought of the forest dark and still,And the dew and the snow and the heat and the chill,And the soft chinook and the summer breeze,And the dappled deer and the birds and the bees...I was so homesick I wanted to cry,But patient I waited for someone to buy.And some said 'Too big,' and some 'Too small,'And some passed on saying nothing at all.Then a little boy cried: Ma, buy that one,'But she shook her head: 'Too dear, my son."So the evening came, when they closed the store,And I was left on the littered floor,A tree unwanted, despised, unsold,Thrown out at last in the alley cold."

Then I said: "Don't sorrow; at least you'll beA bright and beautiful New Year's tree,All shimmer and glimmer and glow and gleam,A radiant sight like a fairy dream.For there is a little child I know,Who lives in poverty, want and woe;Who lies abed from morn to night,And never has known an hour's delight..."

So I stood the tree at the foot of her bed:"Santa's a little late," I said."Poor old chap! Snowbound on the way,But he's here at last, so let's be gay."Then she woke from sleep and she saw you there,And her eyes were love and her lips were prayer.And her thin little arms were stretched to youWith a yearning joy that they never knew.She woke from the darkest dark to seeLike a heavenly vision, that Christmas Tree.

Her mother despaired and feared the end,But from that day she began to mend,To play, to sing, to laugh with glee...Bless you, O little Christmas Tree!You died, but your life was not in vain:You helped a child to forget her pain,And let hope live in our hearts again.

The Christmas Tree by Robert William Service

Famous Poetry Review
the part where the author states

Then I said: "Don't sorrow; at least you'll be
A bright and beautiful New Year's tree,
All shimmer and glimmer and glow and gleam,
A radiant sight like a fairy dream.
For there is a little child I know,
Who lives in poverty, want and woe;
Who lies abed from morn to night,
And never has known an hour's delight..."

Got me thinking.. Why does Santa like the rich kids more then the poor kids?!

One hath breath and saithWhat the tune shall be -Time, who puts his breathInto life and death,Into earth and sea.

To and fro years flow,Fill their tides and ebb,As his fingers goWeaving to and froOne unfinished web.

All the range of changeHath its bounds therein,All the lives that rangeAll the byways strangeNamed of death or sin.

Star from far to starSpeaks, and white moons wake,Watchful from afarWhat the night's ways areFor the morning's sake.

Many names and flamesPass and flash and fall,Night-begotten names,And the night reclaims,As she bare them, all.

But the sun is one,And the sun's name Right;And when light is noneSaving of the sun,All men shall have light.

All shall see and beParcel of the morn;Ay, though blind were we,None shall choose but seeWhen that day is born.

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Algernon Charles Swinburne (London, April 5, 1837 - London, April 10, 1909) was an English poet, playwright, novelist, and critic. He invented the roundel form, wrote several novels, and contributed to the famous Eleventh Edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in every year from 1903 to 1907 and again in 1909.

Famous Poetry Review:
Even tho i personally dont believe the story of Jesus and i feel like the birth scene was stolen from previous, older religions and at its core was an ancient tale referencing astrology, the poem is good. The style and flow is one JediSwift could appreciate.Poetry Search | Famous Poetry

Monday, December 19, 2011

Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth;The silent snow possess'd the earth,And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:

The yule-log sparkled keen with frost,No wing of wind the region swept,But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind,Again our ancient games had place,The mimic picture's breathing grace,And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show'd a token of distress?No single tear, no mark of pain:O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die!No--mixt with all this mystic frame,Her deep relations are the same,But with long use her tears are dry.

Famous Poetry Review:
I personally love his word usage its as if this man was a rapper in his day. His constant rhyming through the whole piece shows true mastery in his ability to manipulate words on a page. I also love of his reference to the occult also. Subtle yet his obviously displays understanding of the true origin of christmas as being pagan.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get An attic-crib. Such lovers will not fret At that, it is half-said. The great carouse Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door, But when I knock at hers, I see the pit. Why did I come here in that dullard fit? I enter, and lie couched upon the floor. Passing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:-- Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain-- Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain! Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat. The small bird stiffens in the low starlight. I know not how, but shuddering as I slept, I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Music I love -­ but never strainCould kindle raptures so divine,So grief assuage, so conquer pain,And rouse this pensive heart of mine -­As that we hear on Christmas morn,Upon the wintry breezes borne. Though Darkness still her empire keep,And hours must pass, ere morning break;From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,That music kindly bids us wake:It calls us, with an angel's voice,To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,Which angels welcomed long ago,When our redeeming Lord was born,To bring the light of Heaven below;The Powers of Darkness to dispel,And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,My raptured spirit soars on high;I seem to hear those songs againResounding through the open sky,That kindled such divine delight,In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them, I celebrate His birth -­Glory to God, in highest Heaven,Good-will to men, and peace on Earth,To us a Saviour-king is given;Our God is come to claim His own,And Satan's power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,Descends to suffer and to bleed;Hell must renounce its empire then;The price is paid, the world is freed,And Satan's self must now confess,That Christ has earned a Right to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:The captive's galling bonds are riven,For our Redeemer is our king;And He that gave his blood for menWill lead us home to God again.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Along the Woodford road there comes a noise Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat post-chaise Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays, With Reverend Mr. Crow and six small boys, Who ever and anon declare their joys With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas, At going home to spend their Christmas days, And changing learning's pains for pleasure's toys. Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls, But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray, The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls, And little boys walk in as dull and mum As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb!